


Companion for life

by Heidigard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Euthanasia, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Slash Goggles, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 10:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6654802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heidigard/pseuds/Heidigard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock receive a diagnosis and have to make a choice, which really is no choice at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Companion for life

**Author's Note:**

> I read a similar story this morning and remembered that I should maybe post this. Sorry for the title. I couldn't think of anything else that wouldn't totally give the story away.

“Cancer,” the doctor says. “Late stage,” he continues. “Incurable.”

The words are like ice water. This is it, then.

 

Sherlock, stoic and blank-faced, looks at the man sitting across from them in his plain, white-tiled office.

 

John looks at Sherlock, resigned, trying to gauge his reaction.

 

The doctor looks at John, waiting for a response from the other medic. A long moment of silence stretches between the sterile walls as the news is absorbed.

 

John sets his jaw, ignoring the sharp clenching of his heart. No use beating around the bush. “We already suspected as much.” He swallows painfully around the small lump that has formed in his throat. “What is our best course of action, then?”

 

“To be honest… there is only one thing to be done.” The doctor meets his eyes with a long, regretful look. John’s mouth draws into a tight, grim line upon receiving confirmation of his fears.

 

“How long?” Sherlock cuts in, deep voice completely devoid of emotion. For once he’s not questioning the proficiency of the man sat across from them. He came with the highest recommendations, after all.

 

“That depends on how much the level of pain is encroaching on normal everyday life. Eating, going for a walk, lazing about, sleeping… I’m sorry, but it’s going to be rather sooner than later.”

 

John nods grimly, clenching his fist so his nails dig into his thigh: a pinch to counter the ache in his chest, the burning at the corners of his eyes. He glances at Sherlock’s stony face before deciding on his next question. “Can he go home now? You know I’m a doctor. I am sure I can handle this and he’d feel more comfortable in his own bed.”

 

The doctor looks back and forth between them for a moment, his eyes full of pity. When Sherlock doesn’t seem inclined to protest, he answers the question with only a hint of hesitation. “Certainly, if that is what you want. I realise that this is all a bit much to take in. Give yourselves time to think about it, let it all sink in a bit, before you decide what you are ultimately going to do. I will be here if you need me. But ethics dictate that I caution you against drawing out your goodbyes for too long."

 

At this, Sherlock stands abruptly, nodding stiffly. “We’re unlikely to forget.”

 

 ***

 

The cab ride home is quiet. Sherlock looks out of the window, pretending not to notice John watching him with concern and pity. John wants to put a hand on Sherlock’s knee to reassure him but he doesn’t dare. Besides, someone else got there first:

 

Their Irish Setter, Gladstone, sits at Sherlock’s feet, head pillowed on his masters thigh as if to offer comfort to the distressed human who is running cold fingers through his silky reddish-brown fur in short, abortive motions. Though Sherlock seems outwardly emotionless, the animal has no trouble detecting the agitation below the surface. It shares this rare sixth sense with John himself. But where Sherlock is often prickly and dismissive towards John, even if his emotions are clearly in upheaval, he rarely rebuffs Gladstone’s attempts to sooth him, even if it means slobber-soaked pants and dog hair on his cuffs.

 

This uncanny talent is why John had not insisted on bringing the dog to a shelter all those years ago after Sherlock had dragged the skinny, dirty and obviously disease-ridden puppy into their home from some god-forsaken sewer the detective had apparently been crawling around in all day. The connection between the two of them had been obvious from the very start.

 

At first, John might have felt a little jealous of the dog – childish, but he hadn’t been able to help himself - though he quickly grew very fond of their new friend. The mood-stabilizing effect he seemed to have on Sherlock was only an added bonus after a while, but it’s one that John would be terrified to go without on days like today. Yet again, he is overwhelmed with gratitude for their four-legged companion, who is always able to console and calm Sherlock when John cannot because Sherlock won’t allow him any nearer than arms’ length.

 

John feels a bone-deep sadness thrumming through him now, looking at the unlikely pair. Today has not confronted them with anything new. They both had suspected from the symptoms that it would be cancer and that it would be bad. Now they knew it was indeed terminal, they would find a way to deal with the emotional fall-out. They would have to. It would break John’s heart. He could barely imagine how Sherlock must be feeling now, wholly unused to such emotions…

 

***

 

It’s evening in 221B. The silence from the ride home has stretched on through the afternoon and turned from helpless anger to resigned melancholy. They don’t need to talk about the elephant in the room because they both already know what needs to be done, have, in fact, long since prepared for it. Receiving the diagnosis was only the final puzzle piece.

 

Sherlock is putting up a brave, aloof façade. He’s sitting in his armchair, fingers steepled under his chin in his usual posture and staring off into space, trying to look as if he’s thinking hard when his mind is just as helplessly blank as John’s. The obvious act still manages to sting John, despite everything. Especially since because he feels the same quiet tendrils of grief compressing his own heart in his chest, John knows perfectly well what is going on underneath the cool exterior.

 

He leans forward in his own chair, staring at his long-cold tea cup on the side table instead of his friend. „You don’t need to pretend,” he says to Sherlock, with far more sympathy seeping through in his voice than he intended.

 

Sherlock’s irritation sparks instantly. „I’m not,” he barks, folding himself further into his seat, knees drawn up to his chest now. John marvels at how he still somehow manages to seem oddly aggressive despite the defensive posture. “It’s just a dog, John. Why would I be upset?”

 

“Because he’s _our_ dog. It’s okay to be sad that he’s nearing the end of his life.” John moves then with the sudden need to be closer to Sherlock, yet not yet daring to touch him. The gesture would be ill-received, he knows. He perches on the coffee table between their chairs, on eye level with Sherlock, but Sherlock angrily turns his head away, staring at the fire instead. His nails dig into the leather of his armrests.

 

“I don’t _want_ to be sad,” he almost whines, a helpless, petulant undercurrent to his words. “It’s such an utterly pointless sentiment and it’s not going to help him.”

 

John sighs. So, this is the issue. He pinches the bridge of his nose and glancing over at Gladstone, dozing in a corner in his usual spot. “The vet is right, Sherlock. We’ll have to put him down. It’s what’s best for him,” he says gently, quietly as if Gladstone might hear.

 

Sherlock snorts. “Surely what’s _best_ for him would be to be healthy and young again,” he snaps bitterly in his all-people-are-idiots-why-am-I-even-talking-to-you voice. His eyes flash, glittering with something more than anger.

 

John sighs again, but doesn’t say anything else. Sherlock’s eyes flit over to him. Something seems to soften at his core. Then he nods, as if to himself. “I’ll do it,” he says abruptly, decisively. “No point in prolonging his suffering.”

 

John watches mutely as he stands and goes to pick up supplies from all over the flat. He compiles an assortment of lab equipment and various flasks and bottles of chemical substances on the kitchen table.

 

In the end, it’s surprisingly simple, though: Sherlock, his movements jerky and tight, devoid of any of his usual grace and flourish, just mixes two components, adds a few drops of a third and thus produces a small vial of faintly amber liquid. He holds it up against the light, then proceeds to fill a small hypodermic with the contents. By the time he has finished, his hands have begun to shake, just a little. He clenches them to conceal the tremor.

 

John notices anyway but he chooses not to mention it for now, aims for something else instead. “You know, I should be alarmed to discover you can mix deadly poisons on a spur of the moment from things we have at our flat.” His attempt at humour falls flat.

 

Sherlock ignores him, instead gulps in an audible breath, squaring his shoulders and turning towards their pet in the corner. He crosses the floor in a few determined steps, back rigid and posture immaculate as always, but when he sinks to his knees on the carpet beside their sick friend, it’s impossible to tell if it’s intentional or if his legs just gave out. Sherlock reaches for the sleeping dog, stroking his hand through the long, silky-gone-dull fur between his ears. The trembling has increased, travelling up his arm to slowly take over his whole body.

 

John sighs. “Are you sure you don’t want _me_ to…?”

 

Sherlock cuts him off. “I can do this, John. It’s just a _dog_!” There is a desperate note creeping into his defiant voice. It makes John ache somewhere below his ribs.

 

“You keep saying that,” John reminds him softly, finally moving closer to kneel beside Sherlock, “He’s not, though, is he. He’s… Gladstone.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t look up. He bites his lip and runs his fingers over Gladstone’s shaved foreleg where the vet already took blood samples. The vein is there, easily palpable under the bristly remnants of fur. The dog dozes on, unaware of the drama around him, breath puffing softly through his hot, dry nose. Sherlock haltingly brings the needle closer but stops before the point touches the skin, breathing heavily.

 

“Sherlock,” John says gently, placing his hands over Sherlock’s trembling ones, “Let me.”

 

Sherlock drags in a shuddering breath and finally relinquishes the syringe to John. He slumps, sitting back on his heels. “It’s just a dog,” he repeats, voice breaking and filling with tears. He sounds confused over his own emotionality.

 

“I know,” John says. “We are doing what any one of us would want if our positions were reversed...” He carefully, but firmly grips the foreleg then to block blood-flow in the vein. When it’s standing out thick and blue, he unerringly slips the needle in and pushes the plunger down slowly. Gladstone doesn’t seem to feel it. He doesn’t stir in his exhausted slumber, just keeps on drawing flat breaths. They know he’ll never wake up again.

 

When it’s done, they both sit there, watching in silence as the dogs’ breathing grows quieter and quieter. John can feel Sherlock, tense like a coiled spring, holding himself still at his side. Whatever he’d concocted must have been very potent because it’s only another handful of minutes before all movement ceases altogether.

 

They stare at the body for another minute before Sherlock suddenly slumps sideways into John like a marionette with torn stings. John wordlessly puts an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, salt water dripping from his own chin. He can sense Sherlock reluctantly starting to cry in his half-embrace as if the tears are forced out of him against his will. John doesn’t stop him this time when he reaches out a hand to resume stroking their dead dog. Sherlock sounds exhausted, uttering quiet, hitching sobs that break John’s heart into tiny pieces, adding to the weight of the flood pressing behind his own eyes.

 

Eventually, when the tears stop, they are curled up on the floor together, Sherlock clearly worn-out and half asleep, John weighted down with a grown mans bulk, the dog not quite in their arms but close enough for both of them to touch. He hadn’t imagined their first real cuddle happening like this, both of them grief-stricken over a dead animal. It seems ironically appropriate, though.

 

It lasts only a few minutes before Sherlock haphazardly wipes the back of his hand across his face and abruptly pulls himself up to stand. He turns away with a flutter of his suit jacket and strides out of John’s line of sight. Seconds later he can hear the quiet click of the instrument case being opened as Sherlock takes out his violin and starts to play.

 

It’s not really music at first, just the instrument being tortured into sound, but after a while a kind of melody begins to condense in the air. John sits with his back turned, now petting Gladstone himself, but he knows Sherlock will be swaying with the notes, eyes closed as he rubs his cheek against smooth wood. The piece reminds him a little of what Sherlock had played when Irene had been thought dead, but there is a different tone to the music now. Less wailing, high-pitched tumbles and more of a sedate, heavy and low flow.

 

John is sure that this music has not existed before this very moment and that he is listening to the unique sounds of Sherlock’s emotions flowing directly from his heart through his instrument and into the space around them.

 

With the repetition of a few bars, the quiet keening of the violin morphs into something like a lullaby. ‘ _Gladstone_ _’s_ lullaby,’ John thinks and it makes his heart ache and pump up new tears as he listens. Gladstone had liked the violin, often perking up when Sherlock took it out and listening intently. John is not sure, but their dog might even have inspired a few compositions before this one. The thought that this will be the last one is crushing...

 

the end

**Author's Note:**

> This was written with my own dog in mind, who thankfully died in peace. Sorry for the (intentionally) misleading beginning ;)  
> Feedback is very much appreciated!


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